


golden boy

by Anonymous



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Canon Compliant, Clothes Wetting, Drunk Sex, M/M, Watersports, chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 08:17:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18406721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He finds John slumped against a tree on the edge of camp, one arm propped over his head supporting himself, the other fumbling drunkenly with his suspenders. Arthur comes up on him, watches him struggle for a moment.“You good there, Marston?” he asks after a few seconds of the pathetic display.





	golden boy

**Author's Note:**

> Watersports tag used as a general catch-all - this fic's pretty light on any real kinky stuff.

Rescuing Sean ends up being easier than Arthur had imagined, all things considered - with him back at camp, spirits are high and liquor flows easily. It’s the first time they’ve all really relaxed since getting out of the storm, and Arthur can see it everyone’s bodies, the palpable relief of something finally gone right.

Over by the fire, John is leaning forward to warm his hands, shaking his limp mane of hair and grinning as Bill and Javier join him, passing around snuff and bottles of beer. He’s eager to take part in the celebrations despite not having taken part in the rescue, Arthur thinks meanly, and then scolds himself for the thought. It’s an old bitter swell, one that he’s trying to stem, but its tide always comes in.

“I am ready to let loose tonight. Been too long,” comes John’s pleased, rasping voice from behind him.

For once Bill is sharp and remarks snidely, “You’re always ready to let loose, Marston.”

Arthur snickers to himself as he passes by, liberating a bottle of whiskey from a crate on a nearby table.

“Well, life’s too short!” John shoots back, voice faint as Arthur heads across the camp, intent on joining Hosea and the other older, wiser members of the gang. 

Indeed it was.

Luckily none of them were injured in the rescue effort, even Sean in good health and spirits, but Arthur isn’t as young as he used to be. His body is sore and tired, shoulder aching from the kickback of his rifle, and the adrenaline that as a young man had coursed through his system and then faded with the success of a good kill or a good fuck has left him wound tight, a headache tugging at the corners of his eyes. It’s put him in a strange mood, and now that the high of freeing Macguire has faded into content relief, he finds himself itching for something.

Drinking usually solved the problem, and so he seats himself with a sigh at a table with Hosea and the others, Pearson cheerily dealing out hands of cards.

It’s the fourth round of poker and Arthur’s lost nearly all his chips when he realises that as always, John is the problem - and the thought that’s been nagging at him, churning his stomach, is that it  _had_  been a while since John had let loose. He drank, sure, all the time. But really let himself fly, drunk and carefree and pleased to let others deal with him and damn the consequences - it had been a long time.

The thought of that, and of the things that had sometimes eventuated when Arthur had let himself do the same, makes him abruptly lay his cards down and stand up.

“Excuse me,” he says, before he can think any better of it. 

“Hang on now, we ain’t done!” Grimshaw protests, but Arthur waves her off, grabbing the near-empty bottle of whiskey for one last mouthful. 

“Sorry. Take my chips,” he says, and there’s a quick scramble for them from the others, Susan swatting the Reverend away as he sloppily lunges for the measly pile.

It seems a stupid idea, but now he can’t let it go, the buzzing tension in his bones settling in his spine. Foolish, really – he and John hadn’t fooled around in forever. Only a handful of times in the years since John had run out on them, and it’d never been nice any of those times, either.

But for whatever reason he finds he can’t let the idea go.

He’d always been a fool, he reasons, but at least right now he was drunk enough to excuse it. Maybe. In any case, he would continue to always be a fool, and so he sets out in search of John.

He finds him slumped against a tree on the edge of camp a few minutes later, one arm propped over his head supporting himself, the other fumbling drunkenly with his suspenders. Arthur comes up on him, watches him struggle for a moment.

“You good there, Marston?” he asks after a few seconds of the pathetic display. John swings around in surprise, swaying and overcorrecting, stumbling.

“Arthur!” he calls. Arthur has half a mind to let him fall but rolls his eyes and steps forward anyway, grabbing him under the elbow. John clutches onto him like a limpet, his footing unsteady in his drunken haze. “Can you, uh, can you...” He paws uselessly at one of his suspenders, but he’s using the same arm as the one he’s trying to free, and gets nowhere.

Arthur shakes his head. “Ain’t you a sorry state,” he says. Maybe they weren’t going nowhere tonight. 

“Please, Arthur, I really gotta piss,” John whines, and there’s enough urgency in his voice that Arthur pushes him upright, manhandling him around so he’s facing the tree again, Arthur caging him from behind. He brushes John’s suspenders from his shoulders, and he swears John gives a little whine.

“You got your belt?” Arthur asks, surprising himself with the sudden huskiness in his voice. John’s breath catches, and his hands come up to fumble with the buckle of his gun belt. He manages to get the end out, and then he makes a distressed sound.

“Oh, fuck,” John says, and then starts laughing hysterically, staggering back against Arthur.

“What -“ Arthur catches his weight and looks down over his shoulder. There’s a dark wet spot growing rapidly on the front of John’s pants, spreading and sloping down his thigh. John is wheezing against his chest, nonsensical snickers, and Arthur grabs his belt buckle, yanking at the leather.

John’s gun belt falls heavily to the ground between their feet, and Arthur isn’t even thinking as he works his hand into John’s pants and pulls his cock free for him, skin brushing against wet, wiry curls of hair. John’s pissing still, though his laughter has quietened. Arthur wraps one strong arm around his chest to keep him steady and holds his cock for him with the other, aiming it at the ground and watching the stream. A puddle grows steadily in the grass and soaks into the earth.

He’s acutely aware of the heat of John’s lean body, the harsh rise and fall of his chest, the stirring in his own gut. This wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting, and he has no idea why this whole situation is doing something to him, but he keeps his own breath steady and holds John’s cock for him until the stream begins to peter out. As the last few trickles come he realises John may be unable to piss any more because he’s beginning to stiffen in Arthur’s hand, his cock starting to firm up and lengthen. John’s breaths come quick and harsh. Arthur's suddenly aware he’s painfully hard. 

He spares one last thought about what a bad idea this is for about a fraction of a second before he drops his head to the vee of John’s shoulder, breathing in his sweaty musk, the stink of alcohol, shuddering as he rolls his hips against John’s ass.

John makes a broken sound and then twists in Arthur’s grip and brings their mouths together, sliding his tongue against Arthur’s. He tastes like old stale cigarettes and whiskey, nothing pleasant but somehow good, and Arthur grabs his waist with one hand to steady him and palms his ass with the other, drawing him in and kissing him deep.

John grinds his wet cock against the rough fabric of Arthur’s pants, and Arthur has half a mind to just let him rut like that until he comes while Arthur licks into his mouth. He doesn’t know how it’s been so long since he kissed John. John’s awful at it but enthusiastic, and Arthur loves it; John sucks Arthur’s bottom lip into his mouth and bites at it, and Arthur doesn’t know where he learned this shit but damn if it isn’t good.

Eventually they break apart, panting, and Arthur presses their sweaty foreheads together. John’s breath stinks of alcohol and his eyes are glazed, his cheeks flushed. Arthur’s drunk, but maybe not quite as drunk as John.

“You know what you doing? Marston?” he questions, voice low. John rolls his eyes.

“Shut up and fuck me,” he commands in that scratchy voice, and Arthur gives a chuckle. John’s overeager, always has been. They aren't fucking with how much they’ve both had to drink, how close they are to camp, but maybe they can do something more than rut like animals. 

“Pull your pants back up ’n get your belt back on,” Arthur says, and John frowns in protest.

“What -“

 “You got a perfectly good tent, John,” Arthur points out, and John’s eyes flash as he takes in the possibilities. John’s such a feral little creature Arthur is sure he’d rather fuck in the woods, but Arthur is old. Privacy and a cot sound good to him.

Quickly, they get John dressed again. The wet spot on his pants is bigger than Arthur had realized, but at least would provide a good explanation to anyone questioning why he was following him into his tent - little Johnny Marston, a drunken mess, and Arthur dutifully cleaning him up and putting him to bed. Weren’t so far from the truth anyhow.

They make their way back into camp, trying for inconspicuous. John slings his gun belt low which mostly succeeds at hiding his obvious hardness; Arthur had taken his off earlier and as such can only subtly try to cover his groin and hope his own erection isn’t too visible.

Thankfully, no one stops them on their way to John’s tent, and as they step inside John lunges for his mouth again, grabbing at him. He hooks his leg around Arthur’s and Arthur steers him to his cot, pushing him down onto it; John staggers as he goes down but rights himself and crawls back, eyes hungry. They divest themselves of their clothes properly this time, first John’s gun belt, then their shirts. John is panting as they kiss hungrily, bare chested, grinding his palm against his hard cock through the damp fabric of his pants.

“You like that, huh,” Arthur murmurs into his mouth, and John groans.

“Like you can talk,” he accuses. Arthur snorts, cupping and rubbing John’s cock through the wet cotton. Yeah, maybe it had done something for him. “Come on,” John groans, pushing up against Arthur, his cock straining and twitching against his hand.

Arthur quiets him with a searing, sucking kiss, and John stills, his breath coming hard through his nose as Arthur takes his mouth. His hips twitch, and Arthur breaks their kiss to spit into his palm and work his hand into John’s pants, finally taking him in hand again. John moans, thrusting into Arthur’s fist, and Arthur takes him slow, circling his thumb over the head of his cock and collecting the pre-come that had been steadily dribbling from it, using the meagre slick to ease the way back down. John swears under his breath as he rubs over the slit, tossing his head and panting.

 “Arthur, please,” he says, and Arthur laughs wickedly.

“Okay, boy,” he says, and presses a kiss to the corner of John’s mouth, under his jaw, the side of his neck. When John realises what direction Arthur’s heading he groans, low and breathy, turning his face into the pillow, hands fisting in the blanket.

As Arthur reaches the flat plane of his stomach John raises his hips without being asked, and Arthur peels his soaked pants down past his hips, his thighs, over his knees, and finally throws them to the side and settles in between his legs.

He looks up and finds John watching him, the tiniest hint of disbelief in his eyes, like he doesn’t think Arthur will really do this. Arthur can’t really believe it himself, but he looks up, closing his hand around him again, then wets his lips and presses the tip of John’s damp cock to them.

Before he can think any better of it, he parts his lips and slides them over the head, swallowing him down.

He tastes... bitter, salty-sharp, but overall not a whole lot worse than he might usually. John hisses and swears, hips jerking up, and Arthur feels one of his hands find its way into his hair, blunt nails scratching over his scalp and tugging hard. This hasn’t ever been Arthur’s forte, and he swears John takes lessons from Abigail with some of the techniques he shows off, but Arthur does enjoy it. Enjoys the silky weight of John’s cock in his mouth, enjoys John’s hitching gasps, enjoys the way his eyes fall closed as Arthur laves him clean.

Arthur reaches up and presses two fingers into John’s mouth and John opens for him without hesitation, taking them in and sucking, getting them wet. His hips lift and roll, his eyes lidded heavy as he watches Arthur. He sucks hard at Arthur’s fingers, his thighs shuddering around Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur suddenly realises he may be a lot closer than he thought.

He pulls off with a maybe-too-loud sucking noise, grabbing John’s cock and squeezing hard. John whines in protest, Arthur’s fingers slipping free of his mouth.

“Slow down, cowboy,” Arthur drawls.

“Come on,” John begs, breathless. “Arthur.”

“You still got that little pot of slick?”

 “Ah, fuck. Yeah, it’s in my belt,” John says. Arthur leans over the side of the cot, hauling John’s gun belt up and passing it to him. John struggles to sit up a little, taking it and digging through one of the side pouches until he turns up the little jar of animal fat. He passes it to Arthur and tosses the belt back to the ground. Arthur pushes him back down, unscrewing the lid of the jar and dipping his index finger in. With a glance back up at John, he presses the tip of his finger to his hole, curling his other hand back around his cock.

 “C’mon,” John urges weakly. Arthur grins, just pushing at the tight ring of muscle, caressing over it without letting his finger slip inside. John groans, his cock twitching in Arthur’s grip, and Arthur presses a wet kiss to its underside, down to his balls, sucking each one gently as he rubs at his taint.

 John is jerking and swearing, and he kicks a leg over Arthur’s shoulder, his heel digging into his back. “ _Arthur,_ ” he begs, and Arthur takes him into his mouth again, finally sinking his finger into the silken heat of John’s body. John groans, cupping Arthur’s cheek, thumb framing his cheekbone, and Arthur slowly fucks his finger in and out as he blows him, crooking it until he rubs over that spot inside of John that makes him jolt, rasp, “Fuck!”

 Arthur slides his finger out and dips two back into the jar, smearing the grease so it covers the both of them. When he pushes them back into John it’s so much tighter but they slide in easy, opening him up and stretching him out. John’s quiet pants fill the room, and he clenches down on Arthur’s fingers, tensing up as he brushes over that spot again.

 Now that he’s found it Arthur doesn’t let up, cupping and rolling John’s balls in one hand as he screws his fingers into John with the other, swirling his tongue around his cock. John is chanting his name hoarsely, his thighs starting to tremble again, and Arthur looks up and finds the lightly haired muscle of his abdomen quivering, his eyes scrunched up closed. All he can hear is John’s hitching pants, the wet squelch of his fingers in his body. Suddenly he’s overcome by his desire to be inside of John, to fuck him properly, and he pulls off his cock, wiping his mouth and giving him another halting squeeze.

 “ _God_ ,” John complains, anguished. Through his heavy-lidded eyes, his expression is dazed and betrayed. “Why’d you stop?”

 “Quiet, Marston,” Arthur admonishes him.

 He scoops the last of the fat from the jar and grabs his cock, kicking off his jeans. When John figures out what he’s doing he scrambles to sit up, chest heaving and eyes wild. Arthur coats himself with the grease, spreading it liberally over his cock and wiping the rest of it between John’s legs, getting his hole good and slick. His erection bobs out in front of him, straining, leaking at the tip.

 “You good? You can take it?” he rumbles, and without a word John leans forward and grabs his jaw, crushing their mouths together.  He grasps at Arthur’s chest, running his fingers through the curls of hair, blunt nails digging in hard. Arthur kisses him back, always surprised by the sheer bruising force John could produce. This desperate, he was animalistic.

 Arthur breaks the kiss, taking John by his side and pushing at him. John gets his intention and quickly turns over, getting his hands and knees underneath him, and Arthur holds him steady at the hip with one hand and lines up his cock with the other. John shudders as he pushes at his entrance, and Arthur loves it, loves _him._

 With John stretched and plenty of grease to slick the way, Arthur sinks in easy, groaning as he finally,  _finally_  gets his dick wet. John is hot and tight and soft inside, and as Arthur pushes in, he makes a guttural sound - pain or pleasure Arthur doesn’t know. Probably both. Arthur settles himself as he bottoms out, letting both of them adjust slightly for a moment, John’s breathing picked up and stuttering.

 After a moment he starts to move, pulling out then thrusting back in, setting a deep, sharp pace. John groans - he always starts to make noise when he’s finally being fucked, Arthur remembers, has heard it a hundred times whether from himself or that toy of Abigail’s or the strangers Hosea had slapped John for bringing back to camp as a teenager. John whines like a whore as Arthur fucks him, and they’re both of them close; Arthur knows he won’t last much longer, not with how long it’s been for him and the sounds John’s making. Somewhat distantly he remembers they’re in camp, that he should really shut John up, but he pushes the thought aside. Let people hear them.

  _That_ thought spurs him on, and he starts to fuck John harder, his thrusts quickening, John’s cries being punched out of him. Arthur spits into his hand, reaches around and closes his fist around John to help him along, and that’s all it takes - John tenses up and clenches down around him, shuddering as he spills himself over Arthur’s hand, shooting into the bedclothes. Arthur feels himself cresting his own wave and he loses himself in it, fucking hard into John as he tightens around him, and a few hard thrusts later he’s coming as well, slumping down against John, his sweaty chest pressed to his back, one arm wrapped tight around him as he shudders and fills him.

 They’re both silent for a long few moments, breathing hard, John’s shaky knees folding underneath him as he flops down to lie on his stomach. Arthur pulls out and moves over as much as the narrow cot will allow, somewhat spooning John, still kind of half on top of him.

 “Can’t believe we ain’t done that in so long,” John says after a while, and there’s some kind of dizzy wonder in the soft rasp of his voice.

 Arthur snorts, his heart still pounding in his chest even as drink and exhaustion start to set in, pulling him towards drowsiness. “I know. Probably gonna regret it in the morning, but damn if you ain’t good.”

 John chuckles, then sighs, and when Arthur glances at him his eyes are closed, his expression fucked-out and peaceful. A few moments later he starts to snore softly, and Arthur gently eases off of him and picks himself up off the bed. He’s just about gathered all his clothes up and made himself somewhat decent when John makes a little noise, then rasps sleepily, “Hey, where you goin’?”

 "What, you want me to stay?” Arthur pauses in the entrance of the tent, turning back.

 "‘f you want,” John mumbles. He doesn’t say anything else, and Arthur’s half-sure he’s already asleep again. Probably is, but for some reason he drops the rest of his things on the boar-skin rug, leaning out of the tent to turn out the oil lamp before shrugging back out of his clothes and climbing back into the cot.

 "You ain’t gonna piss yourself again, are ya?” Arthur grunts, trying to arrange himself somewhat comfortably. The cot was barely made to fit one full-grown man, let alone two, but they’d manage.

 “Shut up, Arthur,” John groans. Arthur laughs low but presses a kiss to his hairline anyway, and allows the post-orgasm exhaustion to finally lull him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> While researching for ~historical accuracy~, I discovered that while the word ‘taint’ in its slang form wasn’t yet coined in 1899 (although with a lack of better options I used it anyway), it does have a fun etymological story! The more you know.


End file.
